


Courting Darkness

by GrowingAHead (shelleyk0503)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Graphic Description, M/M, New 52, Pre-Batman Bruce, Pre-Joker, Red Hood Gang, Sex, variation on blindfolds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 14:16:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8670763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shelleyk0503/pseuds/GrowingAHead
Summary: Set in the New 52 verse, “Zero Year: Secret City” (Issues #21-24). *Contains spoilers for that arc. As well as "Bright New Yesterday" (Issue #0) story in the book “The Graveyard Shift”.
Before the Bat, before the fall into A.C.E chemical vat. Bruce tries to infiltrate the Red Hood Gang again undercover. He doesn’t realize that Red Hood One has a different kind of trap set for him. (… And Crane’s prototype fear gas ‘may’ had an effect slightly akin to that of an aphrodisiac in certain doses.)
Includes Bruce over-thinking and being melodramatic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place somewhere in the middle of “Zero Year: Secret City” - *spoilers*  
> Probably right after Bruce and Red Hood One's shuffle inside Cobblepot's blimp. (This whole thing is inspired by that one scene where Red Hood hijacks the blimp - and upon discovering that Bruce is already there in disguise, Red Hood declares that he likes the vigilante, and offers him a place in the Red Hood gang saying: “You want me to throw you a RED HOOD? Maybe show you MY face? Hell, come with me into the control room, I’ll – ")
> 
> I never thought I'd writing anything explicit in this fandom. Then Snyder and Capullo's Red Hood and younger Bruce got hold of me and I couldn't do anything else until I'd gotten this thing out of my system.
> 
> *Chapter 1 is mostly a set-up. The real 'action' is at Chapter 2.

“A bit of a reconnaissance, hmm?”

The figure shuffling against the wall nearly jumped out of its skin. Barely recovering, it turned towards the source of the voice as his own rang loud and unchecked because of sheer surprise.

“Boss?!?”

“Yes, Red Hood Three Seventy-Eight.”

“Where-“

The latest Red Hood member (At least he thought he was. Who really knew in this gang?) shut his mouth. Feeling foolish. It was pitch-dark in here, more than just being in a room with lights turned off. No use asking where anyone was. The darkness was practically solid, virtually swallowing up even the sound and robbing any sense of direction. The floor – if one could call it that - was made of some strange material that mimicked being on a beach but with a more clay-like density, resembling Play dough or kinetic sand. In fact, the man had found that he could gather up or tear chunks of it just like real clay, only without sticking to the skin. It didn’t quite sink but its squishy nature impeded any quick movements. All in all, the experience was something akin to wading through tar. 

“Boss, you knew I was here?”

“I saw you go in.”

The gang member nearly sputtered. “You followed me?” 

“Not _followed_. You could say I happened to pass by at the opportune moment.”

“Just – Boss, are you by the entrance –. Boss, what were you doing, _passing by_?”

“It was too fine a night.”

The man currently called Red Hood Three Seventy-Eight sighed. He wasn’t too surprised to hear such a nonsense answer from the man. He rubbed his temple. The nauseous headache that had been plaguing him for the better part of the night had worsened. It was probably that damn gas taking effect, but it was also possibly because of this new source of stress. He replied in a weary voice.

“You and I have a very different definition of ‘a fine night’, boss.”

The gang had broken into groups to carry out seemingly random thefts in seemingly unrelated parts of the city that night. As always, the purpose of the theft was never explained. Perhaps only some of them were truly purposeful and the rest were merely smokescreen or just the leader’s idea of fun. Hood Three Seventy-Eight had been among the group that broke into Arkham –  to steal some dubious chemicals that a certain resident professor - Jonathan Crane - was working on. Somehow, the security alarm went off in the middle of the theft and in the mayhem that followed, some flasks from Crane’s lab had been broken to let loose some gas. All had breathed it in to some extent but most of them had managed to get out with some samples of the chemical. (Except one, the one that got hit with the mother load. _He_ had collapsed in a screaming fit and was likely still at the asylum.)

Cold sweat broke out of Hood Three-Seventy-Eight’s temple as he fingered a vial hidden in his pocket – a small sample of the substance that he’d pinched for later study. The increased beating of his heart – to the point where it was an effort to slow down his breathing – couldn’t be solely due to the anxiety of being found out. _Damn_. Because of the absence of immediate effect, he thought he’d be fine. After all, he had been far behind and had the hood on – but he hadn’t counted on a delayed reaction – the headache, the rising fever as well as the slight tremor of muscles. Well, the leader had been right in front of him at that time and considering the design of _his_ helmet, probably had a bit more whiff of that gas. So it should be affecting him even more. But he could hear no strain in the leader’s voice. Perhaps… and he was probably imagining it – a little _lilt_ in his speech, as if the man were just _slightly_ , pleasurably inebriated.

He jerked his head up as he sensed a presence shuffling towards him. The gas must’ve caused him to blank off for a moment to not notice him getting so near.

“Boss, how did you…?”

“Well, I’ve been here before. And one usually has to walk along the wall due to the _uniqueness_ of this space. It was just a matter of choosing which side of the wall you’d be sticking to.”

Hood Three-Seventy-Eight felt a feather-light touch to his forehead, and the faint warmth of a breath.

“ _Feels_ like I got on the right side.”

The Hood member clenched his teeth. Trying not to flinch back. Due to the lack of sight, he could feel the touch more keenly than ever – even through the intricate facial mask. The tickle and the pressure of flesh, the slight grazing of fingernails…

 _Bare skin_. The leader wasn’t wearing his typical kidskin gloves. For some reason, it sent warning signs like ice rolling down his spine.

“Your hood is off.”

“I’m… sorry, boss. But _I_ thought we were done for the night after that madhouse.”

“Yet here you are. _I_ thought I told you that we were to have a rendezvous here, ah, _tomorrow_ night? But perhaps _I’m_ the one who got confused?”

“No, boss. You’re right. I’m… usually familiar with most places you pick but this address you gave us, I had no idea and I got curious. So I thought I’d check it out first…”

“Ah, a matter of professional pride. You’ll go far, Hood Three-Seventy-Eight.”

The sentence was spoken with a light chuckle, like the man was enjoying some private joke. The fingers had trailed down his nose, moved to lightly pinch his earlobe. He’d noticed that about the leader soon after he’d joined the gang – the man had no sense of personal space.

“So, keen student that you are, what can you tell me about this place?”

Hood Three-Seventy-Eight gingerly fist-tapped the wall beside him, which absorbed the impact as a memory foam would. Only it was more rubbery and felt as if it should give a squelching sound. No, rather than being trapped in tar, this felt more like being inside some giant stomach of an unlikely beast.

“Well, it’s a sort of a moving art installation, isn’t it? A portable space the size of a small building. And everything’s painted with some… special kind of black. There're supposed other stuff in here but I guess they’ve cleared the space for the night. I forgot the artist’s name ( _He hadn’t, but it paid to play just a little ignorance_.) but… something about simulating complete darkness. I hear even night vision goggles are useless here. Don’t know how it exactly works ( _He did. He’d done a complete research before he broke in here_ ). Apparently people come in a group, holding each other’s hand, and you… explore the place as you try to find your way out… hence this weird flooring and these... soft walls, I think.”

“Not just the loss of sight, but also of direction, time, and place. A complete loss of where you are and in turn, a loss who and _what_ you are _._ A surreal, floating bowel where the only anchor is the blind hand of the other that you’re clinging to.”

Hood Three-Seventy-Eight shrugged.

“If you say so. I don’t really get all these contemporary art stuff. I also don’t get…”

He stopped. A finger had slipped down to rest just above his upper lip.

“Yes?”

He wondered if it was wise to continue the conversation but, there really wasn’t a choice now, was there? And at this point, it wouldn’t hurt to ask.

“What ARE we doing tomorrow crashing a damn art exhibit?”

“Nothing.”

“Huh? “

“We’re not crashing Ms. Amir’s art exhibit tomorrow.”

“But you said-.”

“I sent a message to everyone after we dispersed at Arkham, the plans changed.”

Sometimes, they used burner phones to for certain messages. He had gotten one as well. But there had been no message tonight.

“I didn’t get any message, boss.”

“I didn’t send you one.”

The fingers followed the right side of his face to lightly cup his chin.

“Because I wanted _you_ to be here, _Hood Three-Seventy-Eight_ , alone with me.”

It was spoken almost in a sing-a-song voice, like talking to a child. Somehow, the strange emphasis sent hairs on the back of the gang member’s neck to stand. The cheerful voice continued.

“Although, I had a feeling that you’d pay an early visit, and I turned out to be right. I even got in easy thanks to you already having broken inside. A lucky night, all around.”

Hood Three-Seventy-Eight gulped. Then regretted it, for Hood One could _feel_ it, couldn’t he?

“Boss, I don’t – “

The hand fell away as the command came.

“Take off your gloves.”

The gang member took an involuntary step back. Ms. Amir’s simulated darkness was perfect. The only thing he could see was matte black – it might as well been painted over his eyeballs. Yet he was sure that the leader had stepped forward along with him.

“Why – “

“Now.”

The voice was more hushed, yet it now held a cold edge, a knife sliding under skin. Hood Three-Seventy-Eight slowly peeled off the gloves like he’d do scabs. Before he even let them fall, the leader’s hand was on his arm. Feeling along his biceps, the leader's fingers crawled down like a spider to rest on his inner wrists, thumbs circling where the veins were. He held his breath, sure that the leader was feeling his quickened pulse. The fingers slid further down to link with his own and he could feel the smoothness of them against his own callous skin. Then his hand was brought up. The end of his own fingers struck the cold, hard edge of the helmet only to be enveloped by soft, wet warmth -.

_Fuck._

Instinctively, Hood Three-Seventy-Eight tried to jerk his hand back. Except the lean fingers holding it were like vice. Now he could feel something hard pressing down on the end joint of his middle finger. _Teeth_. 

“Boss, I, I really don’t –“

“I _did_ say I like you.”

“Um, I don’t think you have, actually.”

“See, you didn’t hear me correctly. Just like _last time._ ”

The previous warning increased tenfold, the sound of blood rushing now deafening his ears. Yet he held onto some dogged hope that he could keep up the facade, as he tried a pleading tone.

“Boss, I’m – really sorry but – is there any way I can get out of this without – um – offending you?”

“I wouldn’t ask you to do anything you _didn’t_ want.”

The gang member almost snorted at that. But he couldn’t come up with a sharp repartee because the leader had turned his hand up, and the steel edge of the helmet was digging into the center of his palm, followed by the tickling of warm softness. The contrasting sensations making his breath hitch. The leader spoke directly into his hand.

“But the least you can give me is a chance to convince you. To that end, why don’t we lose the mask as well, hmm?”

“You _know_ I don’t have my hood on –“

“That phony face you have on.”

This time, Bruce managed to snatch away his hand.

In fact, he put so much force into it that his hand banged against the wall and he winced. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about –“

“You pulled the security alarm back at the asylum, didn’t you?”

Bruce had to take a deep breath. In proportion to the increasing heartbeat, his senses seemed to have intensified. The warmth, the sheer presence of the figure before him felt smothering. The Red Hood Leader continued:

“I really didn’t think you’d pull the cuckoo trick again, since our meeting at the bank.”

Resigned, Bruce sighed and reverted to his normal manner of speech.

“Not the same. This time, I didn’t switch with anyone. This time, I got in… _properly,_ as a new member.”

“Ah, indeed. Does this mean you changed your mind about my offer up at Mr. Cobblepot's blimp?”

This time, Bruce did snort. The man in front of him gave a small laugh and Bruce felt him move nearer towards him. Bruce held his ground but couldn’t help leaning back. Panic made his head spin and he couldn’t think of a course of action because he was too busy going over what he could have done wrong: Was it possible that Red Hood had him followed? No, he was sure that his trail and the whereabouts of his headquarter were well covered. After forcing himself to be calm, he finally spoke, low and guttural.

“So? You found me out, what’s your plan?”

“Oh now really, I thought I made that rather clear, my little vigilante –“

“ _Don’t._ ”

Bruce snapped. He wasn’t sure if he was referring to the twisted endearment or the brush of a hand against his face. Bruce’s eyes now felt like they were being sanded red and hot by the thick black and Bruce closed his eyes momentarily, only to feel a slight pressure of fingers on his eyelids. With a snarl, he snatched up the hand and twisted it just short of doing actual damage. 

“I could just render you immobile right here and drag you to the authorities.”

Bruce could practically _hear_ the leader rolling his eyes behind that chrome helmet.

“Oh, _surrrrre_. And _I_ could just throw down my helmet and rip my clothes while waxing poetic about poor me being jumped by some gang member – who’s apparently adding _slander_ to his vast list of unspeakable vices! Who do you think they’ll believe? This innocent face or the man with a fake one? How about we skip all that embarrassment and just keep the tasty bits - about throwing down the helmet and ripping clothes?”

Bruce felt a flush rising that wasn't _all_ because of the substance in his system.

“You can’t possibly mean that. This is some sick game you’re playing with me-”

The sigh that followed was tinged with genuine exasperation.

“I see that _denseness_ is one of your definite flaws. And here I was, thinking that surely I’ve thrown enough hints by now… ever since you sneaked in among us.”

“Is… is _this…_ something that you… do with… do to the members… regularly?”

Bruce hated that he sounded like some young punk lost for words. Which _was_ basically what he’d been reduced to, apparently. And despite himself, he had to admit that he was curious. The leader had absolutely no compunction about touching others but Bruce had assumed that was the part of his ‘character’, a performance. During the time he’d been undercover (or _thinking_ he was undercover), he’d noticed no signs of… such activity within the gang and until now, Bruce hadn’t even given any thought to the leader’s preference in such matters. And no, he had _no idea_ he was being given hints. The leader chuckled.

“Not quite… regularly. Do I sense some jealousy there, _Hood Three-Seventy-Eight_?”

Bruce scowled at the mocking tone, not that the man would be able to see it. He realized he was still holding onto that wrist and noted how thin it was. Bruce could almost wrap his hand around it. It was uncanny how the leader handled his ridiculously remodeled firearms with such ease. He carefully readjusted his grip and was all too aware of the feel of flesh sliding against flesh. To Bruce, Red Hood leader had just been… his work. A name. A target. An information. Something to observe, analyze, and to be dealt with. In fact, that was how he saw most people since he began his ‘war’.

It had never occurred to Bruce that the Red Hood had a _body_.

That was one of the disconcerting aspect of weeks spent undercover, being increasingly aware of this living, breathing _flesh_. It didn’t make the Red Hood leader seem any more human. In fact, the closeness made him even _more_ monstrous. It was just the sheer physicality of the creature - the cruel movements, the heat he exuded, smell of warm body beneath the note of crisp, dry suit and tang of metal.

Bruce had been repeatedly reminded of his stay with a tribe situated deep in Northern India back in his training years. During the final days, it was decided that he was fit for the final test of his prowess against the panther. Bruce had assumed that the Panther was a name for their best champion, until he’d jumped into the battle pit and came face to face with the black beast stretching luxuriously, its predatory heat assaulting him before any show of claws or fangs. All black and pure muscle. _Savage grace_. Bruce had thought. A beast under a sleek, black suit, all idle confidence that could almost convince one that killing was simply a nature of it. _A killing grace._

And here, deprived of any distancing sensory information, the presence was overpowering. Aside from Alfred, this was the longest physical contact Bruce had ever had with anyone since his return to the city.

The right thing to do, a _sane_ thing to do, would be to simply knock him out and just leave.

Bruce fought the urge to rub his face. Damn Hood Three-Seventy-Eight. It had been one of is most enduring disguises and it was now difficult to suddenly break character. That must be it. A hood listened when Hood One spoke.

“What makes you think I’d even _think_ about going through with this?”

Feeling of another eye-roll.

“Oh, if you want a boooorrring yet sociably acceptable answer, to let off steam, I guess. You’re obviously a very busy man and while your… mission … no doubt requires you to do some spying on other people, I highly doubt you get a quarter of the action as James Bond does. The last I heard, that sort of thing causes some pent-up issues.”

The flush grew anew because it brought up an uncomfortable memory: A fortnight ago, Bruce had managed to track down one of the ‘deep’ members – turned out, he was the head of security of one of the firms ran by the Powers family. But the fact that surprised Bruce was that he was apparently a happily married man. Bruce had experienced the evidence of this more up-close than he’d ever intended because when he had slipped into the man's office to search for any clues that might hint at the Leader’s plan, the gang member, sans hood, had come in while passionately kissing his wife. The only place Bruce had time to hide behind was above the corner cabinet, barely covered by the blinds, where he had to stay until the lovers had exhausted themselves on the desk and picked themselves out, sated. Bruce had felt the full shame of being forced into a voyeur’s role without any of the pleasure. But it was quickly forgotten in the wake of his anger. Bruce knew that the gang member had willingly killed and tortured a number of people while under the hood. Then all this time, he had simply retired to his home just like any innocent worker. With the same bloodied hands, he had embraced his wife, had whispered words of affection with the same mouth he’d used to threaten his victims. In his hiding place, Bruce had tried to find some sort of physical manifestation of the evil the man had committed – any potential of violence in his caresses, any signs of hypocrisy in his ludicrously mundane conversation about their future house.  

And now, what hadn’t affected Bruce that night came back with a vengeance – the memory of sighs and moans, roving hands across sweat-slicked bodies and the air thick with heat – as thick and hot as the air between him and the leader right now -.

“Aaaaaand, I can’t see you taking care of that sore spot by _purchasing_ such services, you’re much too serious for that.”

“Yet you somehow believe I could be _coerced_ into _this_?”

“Ah, there comes the crux of the matter.”

The leader’s whisper almost caressed his face.

“You want me.”

“I don’t –“

“You want to find out about me, chase me, catch me, oh yes, you probably want to pummel me a little as well. But most of all, you want to _know_ me, in all every whichaway. And you’d not pass over a chance offered.”

“You’re delusional.”

“And you haven’t said ‘no’.”

Bruce realized, with some alarm, that he had been absently stroking the leader’s wrist with his thumb, mimicking what the leader had done to him moments ago. _Fingerprints._ Bruce’s thoughts drifted, wisps of smokes dissipating from inside his head. He wasn’t too worried about the fingerprints. His had been burnt away by various chemicals he was always working with. They’d grow back eventually but by then, an artificial skin film he was developing would be ready. Nor was DNA a concern - one of the first things he’d done upon returning to Gotham was to purge or replace all of his medical records. The sole biological references of Bruce Wayne remained in his private database. Besides, he had supplementary means when it came to DNA traces. So even if the unthinkable happened…

And here he was, thinking about the unthinkable.

“For all I know, you could have your hoods lined up just outside.”

“ _Please_ , you _know_ I had plenty of chances to do something like that for the past week.”

Bruce had to concede to that, although it rankled that he had been at the mercy – no, a whim – of the man all this time. Yet the very thought lent some credibility to the…‘offer’ made by the gang leader. After all, he had ample time and opportunity to eliminate him and – hadn’t.

Then Hood One suddenly leaned in – almost enough so that he’d lose balance without support – and Bruce had to move their held hands to the side to keep the leader from falling into him. There was a whiff of something sickeningly sweet – reminiscent of an overripe fruit or a flower just short of rotting – only more powdery and with a sting of some alcoholic base stabbing through. “Are you drunk?” Bruce asked almost absently.

He wondered if it was one of those sweet liqueurs. Or… oh yes, Hood One definitely had taken in some of that chemical as well. Bruce was definitely going to check on this Professor Crane afterwards. Whatever he was concocting, it couldn’t possibly be legal or normal.

The leader gave another laugh.

“I am, always a _little_. Aren’t _you?_ ”

There was a vague ache running through Bruce, as if some invisible hands were thrumming his nerves like cords to a stringed instrument. Or perhaps those hands were the leader’s, for his other free hand had latched onto the edge of Bruce’s jacket, pulling at it like a mischievous child intentionally drawing shrilling scratches on his violin.

“Do you know, you haven’t mentioned the vital point of this installation? The participants don’t come in all at once. They’re guided in one by one. So that they _never_ see each other’s faces. The rule stands even when they get out. Always one by one. So they’ll never know whose hand they held in the darkness, even if they pass by each other afterwards by sheer coincidence. Anything they felt together in this space… might as well be a midsummer night’s dream.”

“Before... you said you were willing to show me your face anyway, if I wanted.”

“This is for your benefit, not mine.”

The hand had strayed up to the side of Bruce’s head again. This time, the nails dug in and tore a small gap along the edge of the thin mask. Bruce let go of the other’s hand and moved half a step back, rocking on his heels, almost away from the prying fingers.

_It’d be just like a dream._

There was a part of him that was horrified. Bruce knew that was the problem: only _a part_ of him. The rest was fascinated at the offer of complete abandon. He had been trying to justify himself to everybody – to Alfred, to _himself_ – to live up to a certain standard he’d built up – and he was suddenly finding himself so tired. Ever since _that_ night in the alley, he knew there was something broken in him. He had walked through life with a limp in his soul and it colored all his relationships in red and black. It was a dark and ugly thing and he’d tried so hard to push it back, where others couldn’t see it, where others couldn’t be _hurt_ by it.

Bruce didn’t have to worry about any of it with this man. This man – this creature - wouldn’t care. And in that carelessness, Bruce could lose himself, if for a fleeting moment. Because Bruce’s own darkness would be swallowed up in the deeper, heavier darkness.

The scandalized logic that still remained screamed: This wasn’t just a bad idea, this was complete idiocy. You don’t drink saltwater just because you’re parched.

 _Really?_ A sniggering voice countered that thought. _Ask a man dying of thirst in the middle of the ocean. Even if you knew the consequences, would you really not?_

That moment’s hesitation was Bruce’s undoing. He heard some shuffling, then a soft sound of something dropping onto the clay-sand surface.

Red Hood had taken off his helmet.

Hands seized Bruce’s own and brought them up to cup both sides of a face. Bruce stayed frozen, afraid even to breathe, as if he were holding a plastic bag swollen with liquid and the slightest jostle would cause the bag to burst.

 _Too late_. Red Hood’s hands traveled up his arms to mirror Bruce’s position. _Dark mirrors of themselves_. Nonsense words came to Bruce’s mind as nails once again hooked onto the already torn edges of his facial mask and slowly dragged down. Bruce heard a panting breath and realized that it was his own. He felt the heat between the two of them condensing, seeping underneath his skin, and swollen into some smoldering creature that slowly swam inside his belly, hot tendrils reaching above to wrap around his heart and squeeze, spreading below to stroke between his thighs. Yet his head felt like it was stuffed with alcohol-soaked cotton, making his eyes and the flesh around them dry and cold. So when the peeling fingers came just above his eyes, the sensation was too much and Bruce closed his eyes, relishing the warmth across his eyelids, his cheeks.

As the useless mask dropped off his chin, Bruce pulled his hands in, full with the other's face, stopping just short of the figure in front crashing into him. His right thumb brushed over a lock of hair over an ear. _Longer than his own. Just a slight hint of curls._ Bruce felt the other man nuzzling into his palm.

“You taste sweet.”

“It’s the… chemical. Back at the asylum, Crane’s. We’re both… affected.” Bruce's voice was weak, drowsy, a man speaking in a dream.

“Hmm,” Red Hood murmured noncommittally, his own hand exploring Bruce’s mouth, down to his chin where a hint of stubble had settled. In answer, Bruce’s hand circled to the back of the man’s head, fingers sliding underneath those locks, digging into the scalp, describing the shape of the skull.

_Just a little._

_I can stop. I_ will _stop. Just a little before that._

Such thoughts. Thoughts that made men stumble.

Bruce let the leaner hands pull him down. Felt warmth press onto his forehead, to slide down to his left cheek, purring whispers spilling in.

“We’re going to enjoy each other, my little vigilante.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I’m gonna write some guilty pleasure.  
> *Spends several thousands of words for a set-up.
> 
> WHY do you do this to yourself.
> 
> I feel very bad with regards to Crane. If he ever found out, he’d be scandalized.
> 
> Just want to point out that I’m not at at all endorsing breaking into someone else’s artwork and... doing whatever deed in there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce shares a night with his nemesis (...which will, knowing him, probably haunt him for the rest of his life.) (and ends up owing big time to a certain installation artist.).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up searching some unexpected stuff as I wrote this - like how to make your own aftershave (absinthe recipe is an actually existing one, and absinthe apparently isn't near as toxic as it's made out to be), history of the story of Little Red Riding Hood, how to muck up DNA and etc.
> 
> Warning: Both Bruce and Red Hood are major mood-breakers.

The jackets were the first to go.

Bruce couldn’t remember whether he’d shrugged out of his or whether the other man had slipped it off of him. He knew Red Hood’s would have a tear at least in the seams of the shoulder, as Bruce had practically ripped it off. He hadn’t even realized that he had the other man pinned against the wall, pushing that body hard enough so that the strange material of Ms. Amir caved in around it. Some cold shard of what’s left of Bruce’s logic noted all of his frantic, uncontrolled gestures. He was unable to determine whether to explore that face more, or whether to tear off the rest of the stifling garment to expose even more flesh. Bruce had never imagined that the feel of skin could be _addictive_. As if he were shaping this body out of the malleable darkness all around him. Addiction, he knew, was based on fear. Bruce didn’t dare take his hands off even for a second for fear of losing track. He had learned how to fight blind, to respond to the unseen movements intended for harm, but never had it been demanded of him to map out the terrains of an unseen body.

 _A little more_. _This much has already been committed, why not just a little more?_ The treacherous voice in Bruce’s head sounded very much like Red Hood One’s.

Having cast out the scrupulously knotted tie, Bruce’s hands moved back to Red Hood’s face. That critical part of him that was still putting up a losing battle against trails of heat spreading inside made a desperate attempt to turn it clinical: the long, sharp nose that was not quite hooked, the distinct cheekbones, the almost pointed end of the earlobe, the parting of hair - slightly puffier than Bruce’s own (Black? Blond? Brunette? Contrary to some belief, it was nigh impossible to tell the color of hair just by its texture.) - in the middle of the head, the scalp slightly moist with a sheen of sweat, as Bruce’s own must be. Bruce’s fingers failed to distinguish any telltale wrinkles. No surprise since he had suspected that the man was  somewhere around his age.

Bruce had been determined to draw the line at just using his hands. _A child’s determination, to not step on the cracks in the sidewalk._ So he wondered, through the hazy fog that now dominated his head, just when he had started to mouth along Red Hood’s brows, lips pressing into the bone just above the left eye, down to the slope of an eyelid, to the delicate lashes that his hardened fingertips would never appreciate due to their dulled senses. The only other time Bruce had felt someone’s eyelashes was with Jules, perhaps the only light of his stark student years. Julie Madison, with hair like orange flame and so filled with warmth and brightness of the sunniest day and as removed from darkness as anything possibly could be -.

Bruce hastily cut the line on that memory, sinking it into depths lest any sleek blackness with tooth and claw could get at it, marring it irrevocably.

He had to consciously stop himself at the line of cheekbones, from covering the other man's mouth with his own. That childish belief again.

_“That was just a practice,” he’d exclaim to himself whenever he’d accidentally stepped on the cracks as a boy, “it doesn’t count.”_

Not this. Bruce told himself inwardly as he covered the man’s mouth with his hand instead. _This shouldn’t count._ His fingertip brushed against a spot of dead tissues at the left end of the thin mouth. A scar. Bruce hadn’t noticed it before, too faint to be recognized visually.

Bruce had torn apart Red Hood’s shirt - surely sending some buttons flying – when he was taking care of the tie. He mouthed along his chin, smooth unlike Bruce’s – and there was a tinge of aftershave, hiding underneath that cloying chemical odor. Bruce had tried to pinpoint the brand before, when he was among the gang, in hopes of any clue (Alfred had wryly pointed out, “Perhaps, like so many others, you are not completely free of the all-permeating influence of those CSI episodes, sir?”) but gave up after figuring that the man seemed to take up all kinds of brands at random. Some Bruce could swore the man whipped up himself. There was a time when Bruce was sure that the leader had caught him literally sniffing around and gave him an amused glance.

And now, without a need for stolen sniffs, Bruce drank in the scent greedily. Ah, some personal blend again. Something familiar swirling together to create something he’d never really smelled before. A musky odor and… something else stirred at the edge of recognition, spice-like but not … oh, absinthe. _From anise and wormwood, the latter being toxic._ The database inside Bruce’s head rattled off. He must have murmured the last word out loud, for Hood One replied, “Hmm, I suppose, but, ah, a bit of poison is… hmm – good for you.”

“Says you.”

Bruce was vaguely aware that his own tie was magically gone, and that softer hands than his own were threading through his moist hair, reminiscent of an adult comforting a feverish child. The picture was ruined when Bruce’s hand traced along the other's collarbone, pushed open the remaining shirt and accidentally brushed over a hardened nipple. Bruce had to stifle a groan at the brief touch and the feel of the other’s hip grinding into him. 

Still he half-expected this to end abruptly. Surely something would shatter through this poisonous haze to wake his misty consciousness. Some outward sign of this man – this creature’s - malice, something that laid his innate ugliness bare, some tangible hint of this evil, this abomination.

Yet all that came to him was the image of that panther in the pit. As he had looked into the impossibly huge, luminous twin pools of green with knife-slits in each center, he remembered thinking: _At least death comes beautiful._ He had wanted to feel that sheer strength beneath that velvet hide, perhaps with some irrational hope that some of that power that had nothing to do with human would transfer onto him. _The shoulders, now divested of the silken cloth, were narrower than Bruce had surmised, the jutting of bones definite under the thin, hard muscles, yet the curve they formed as they moved under his rough caresses were hauntingly smooth, the harsh lines turning fluid under his very fingertips like shape-shifting Proteus. The ridges of the spine and the dip along the back as it arched drawing him in like traps._ He didn’t end up dead, nor did he have to kill the beast. He had managed to survive long enough to break down a section of the spiked wall of the pit. Then the beast had dove for freedom, using Bruce’s hunched back as a leverage and dislocating his shoulder in the process. As far as Bruce knew, his mentors there were still debating the outcome. The pit battle’s winner was described as ‘the one left standing’. Both he and the panther had left the pit standing.

If only everything worked out so easily.

“What – _hmmmm_ \- did you not have to kill?”

 _Oh. Again._ Bruce bit his lips once but then murmured against the other’s neck. “A panther.”

“…You fought a panther.”

Bruce hummed into the chemical-sweetened skin by way of an answer. Red Hood sighed and tilted his head back, surrendering more of his throat.

“You know, I don’t find it as surprising as I should for some reason.”

Bruce found another old scar near the waist, just hidden by the tucked–in end of the shirt, possibly created from some twin-pronged tool, and catalogued it carefully in memory. A spot at the flank caused Red Hood to flinch. Ah, the stab wounds from their fight at the blimp, courtesy of Bruce’s own hidden blades. He circled the tender area around the scabs, they didn’t feel like they’d be given the honor of becoming the permanent fixture of this body.

Bruce felt along the belt buckle and further down. For a moment, his hand wandered aimlessly among alien coldness of metal and texture of fabric to come upon something bulging through –

Oh. _Ah._ Bruce winced and hoped the other didn’t catch it as he bucked into Bruce's hand. This was where he had to decide – a ‘little more’ beyond this point would be – but it was getting tight and painful in his own pants and he fought the urge to grind back.

“Say, little vigilante…”

Bruce wanted to snap at the derisive moniker but didn’t dare answer back because he knew his voice right now would come out shaking. He took a little satisfaction in the fact that Hood One’s voice was also hoarse. Bruce was surreptitiously sliding his hand away to rest upon a thigh when the gang leader whispered into his ear, almost tickling the lobe.

“… Is this your first time?”

It wasn’t quite pouring cold water over his head, but at least similar to splashing it over his face. Bruce actually jerked back, holding the other man at a distance, mouth agape.

“ _What?_ No! What do you mean…!”

Bruce gritted his teeth. _Damned_ if he was going to be judged on lack of his _technique_ by this man…

“I meant,” Red Hood’s words shook with underlying laughter, causing further annoyance for Bruce, “is this your first time batting for the home team?”

Bruce was about to give a sharp retort – then paused. During his travels where he had taken various personas, he had formed some brief relationships or had ‘flings’ - mostly with women but also with some men. Those had been mostly out of necessity or spur-of-the-moment deals but Bruce had to admit that he’d never gone ‘all the way’ with the latter. In any case, the last ‘serious’ relationship with anyone was with Jules-

“A little late to be asking that question, don’t you think?” Bruce snapped, hating the man for bringing up what precious memories he had left to – to _this_. Red Hood, quite heedless of the turn of Bruce's mood, continued on cheerfully. 

“I didn’t think you’d care which, really. But whatever your preference, _acting_ on that preference can be another matter. Just wanting to save you from any possible embarrassment.”

Then an almost chaste kiss slid upon Bruce's cheek.

“Don’t worry, I’ll lead so that the role you play won’t _technically_ be all that different.”

Before Bruce could make any comeback, the other’s skillful fingers were playing with his shirt collar, then made short work of his buttons. As the fabric slipped off his shoulders, Bruce suppressed a shudder. All this while, Red Hood’s mouth was busy along the lines of Bruce’s face – as if he’d memorized all of Bruce’s previous actions and was now replaying them, only without the halting hesitations and tongue sometimes following after the touch of lips, making Bruce’s flesh quiver. Bruce tensed when he felt the other's mouth rest just above his lips, then there was a playful lick of tongue on the tip of his nose and the warmth had moved down to his chin, rubbing against the ghost of a stubble. Hands almost idly brushed over the lines of his shoulders to biceps, to his chest that rose and sank heavily to the touch. Unlike Red Hood’s, Bruce’s body was riddled with marks – scars prominent and fading, old and fresh wounds. Lean fingers traced over them, almost – if Bruce dared to think so – reverently.

Bruce hissed as those fingers lightly pinched his nipple then gasped as wet warmth encased it. The whirl of tongue and grazing of teeth making it pebble-hard, causing even the other one to grow sore in response.

“I like you like this,” Red Hood spoke – pressing words deep into Bruce’s skin, hands fluttering over the contracting muscles of his stomach, “like I’m molding you out of this darkness, all these tight muscles, all these scars – everything.” Bruce had been thinking the same thing as he had explored the other body, hadn’t he? _Get out of my head._ He wanted to shout.

Bruce didn’t know when they had switched sides – now _he_ was leaning against the soft wall, his back digging a deep furrow into it. Hands and mouth danced downwards, tantalizingly _just_ sweeping over that agonizing spot that begged to be touched, pressing down on his thighs that kept pivoting his hip forward. Fingers hooked onto the top of his pants and pulled down. As the fabric folded over by his knees, Bruce sucked in a breath at the sudden release and the cold that assaulted his nether regions. In contrast, his face was hot with embarrassment because he could already feel the wetness on the fabric of his briefs.

Fingers tiptoed down from the middle of his abdomen, sometimes brushing over the tense muscles as if to ease their spasm, then went lower to tease at the elastic band of the briefs before slipping in, stopping just at the base of Bruce’s hardened length, nails snagging at the hair around the organ. Bruce gasped out loud, back thudding into the wall as his hips jerked forward.

“Shh,” breath ghosted over Bruce’s skin, a deceptive promise of a much-needed friction, “shhh…” Bruce felt the other’s body slide down against him. Warm wetness – a tongue – dipped into his navel and described a moist trail down to where those errant fingers had been teasing, briefs having been already pulled down in the process. It took a while for Bruce to figure out that the sharp nose and thin mouth were rubbing against the lower growth of hair as they had done with his chin stubble. Then the mouth dipped lower. Ah. _Ah_. After a couple of unforgivably casual pecks, there was a long, deliberate lick along the whole of his length and Bruce nearly cried out.

“You’re delicious,” a low chuckle vibrated along his whole body, “delectable.”

Blinking hotness from his eyes, Bruce quivered as something hard applied pressure at his tip – _oh, those damned teeth, predatory things always peeking underneath that chrome helmet –_ and Bruce was so occupied with those teeth nibbling their way slowly up that he realized a second too late that _Red Hood had taken him wholly in his mouth._

_“Fuck.”_

_Yes, very much doing that._ A part of Bruce that took after Alfred at his most cynical without any of the kindness ( _don’t think about Alfred right now don’t_ ) quipped. Most of the other parts were busy trying not to have his brain fuse out. Sheer automatic reaction caused Bruce to grasp at the body – now likely on its knees – below him. Just imagining Red Hood kneeling before him sent such a rush of blood downwards that Bruce jerked from sheer pain. One desperate hand nearly crashed against the hunched shoulder, jostling the other body somewhat, transferring the impact that nearly drove Bruce over the edge. He managed to place his trembling hands somewhere along the man’s shoulder, tentatively moving up until he had one hand resting on the bobbing head. A hard suck, and Bruce found himself pulling at the man’s hair. Instead of protest, a low humming vibrated approval along Bruce’s over-sensitized nerves.

Red Hood One’s mouth moved again and concentrating all his willpower to not thrust all the way down the man's  _throat_ – Bruce held tight onto that fistful of hair as he banged the back of his head into the wall behind.

“I, ah, _haa –“_  

A hand snaked up and lightly pressed back against his bucking hips, almost soothingly, pulling back a little as Bruce pushed back, setting a rhythm. Bruce’s whole body was burning wax, melting and dripping and soon he’d be pooling on this floor, mixing with the faux clay. 

Bruce tilted his head up, eyes shut tight. He could feel his hot breath condensing in the colder air above, drizzling down on him sweet-sour. When he opened his eyes, it was absolutely no different than he had them closed, but somehow – the almost claustrophobic darkness felt more- expansive. Poking through the haze of lust was an apprehension – no, recognition. That’s right, the moment he’d entered here, he held a strong aversion to this place because – it had reminded him of his fall inside the cave when he was a boy. Just like this, the darkness there had been nearly tangible, rendering the memory of sight a mere illusion, some hopeful dream. But that memory was sacred to him in its own way and thinking of it now felt sacrilegious, like pleasuring oneself on the altar of a temple. Albeit a temple of an unknown deity, whose alter would’ve been adorned with horns of some unlikely beast and overflowing with fresh blood and still-beating heart of living sacrifices.

Bruce frowned. Impossible as it was, he was sure that the darkness around him was now pulsating. _And wasn’t that how he’d perceived that darkness as a lost child? A panting, hungry monster about to swallow him_? This is the thing that is devouring me, Bruce thought dazedly, darkness, eating me bit by bit. Breathing was becoming a feat as his heart thudded a pugilist’s beat against his chest and Bruce wasn’t sure whether out of fear or arousal. His grip on the other figure tightened yet his voice sounded hesitant and weak as it barely croaked out of his dry mouth.

“Could… could you keep talking?”

There was a choking sound, and Bruce was released so abruptly that he cried out at the loss, sudden cold slamming knives into him. The gagging noise continued, followed by intense bouts of coughing. Bruce slowly crumpled down against the wall, took a labored breath, and shuffled forward until his hand met a shaking shoulder. Saliva must’ve went down the wrong pipe, as well as -  other fluid. Concern was soon replaced with irritation as Bruce found that the gang leader was shaking not just from the coughing fit, but laughter.

“You – ah, haah – you do realize that my mouth was – aha, _occupied_?”

Bruce’s face burned.

“I’m – sorry,” he muttered, forgetting himself and to whom he was talking to, “I didn’t think – “

The fit subsided into silence and Bruce faltered over his words. Then the body under his palm slipped towards Bruce, hair tickling his chin and the other’s breath, his Adam’s apple.

“I bet you were an awfully polite, awfully spoiled child.”

Then Red Hood drew back again.

“Well, I wasn’t going to get you off that easily anyway. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m still half decent.”

Red Hood’s fingers still had a precarious hold on Bruce’s right arm, and Bruce followed that line of flesh to drag himself back to the other body, kicking off his pants and shoes as an afterthought. He forcibly kept the movements deliberate and slow, if he fumbled now, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to get the other’s belt off. The deed miraculously achieved blind, he took that last bit of clothing off the man, altogether along with underwear, fumbling a bit where it got into a complicated knot at the shoes until finally tossing all of it behind him in a heap. Bruce felt along the bare foot – somehow, it lent an air of vulnerability that caused something like an acute pain. Bruce tried to suppress it as he let his hands travel up the side of the completely naked body. A sort of dread and anticipation ran through him, similar to that of standing on the edge of a pool – knowing that the first icy break through the surface would be painful but soon the waters would warm up to him – and Bruce wanted to put off the fulfillment of both at the moment.

He paused at the other’s underarm, rubbing at the thin, bark-rough lines. More scars that he’d missed before. These were a series - slashes that started near the armpit and continued down the inside of the elbows, stopping just above the wrists. Bruce wondered if they were remnants of some self-mutilation but they were too uniform across both arms. The only way Bruce could think of something that might result in this was putting both arms together, palms up, onto some flat surface while someone repeatedly lashed at them starting up, all the way down, using a tool that was a cross between a razor and a whip.

Red Hood must have felt that Bruce was dwelling in one place far too long, for he subtly twisted his arms to take hold of Bruce’s wrists and guided him down, where Bruce groped for something recognizable – a protruding knee, gliding up and round to an area with moist flesh. Where – ah, ha, inner thighs.

“My, grandma,” Red Hood exclaimed with an exaggerated, high-pitched giggle, “what big hands you have!”

Bruce bit his lip. There was _no way_ he was going to answer, ‘to better grab you with.’

Bruce was startled to find the twin series of scars adorning the soft skin there as well. Bruce tried in vain to come up with ways this could have happened in an accident but he knew it would have had to be done by _someone,_ with the definite _intention_ of such. Bruce felt an unexpected flash of anger.

 _If I asked, would you tell me?_ But he was afraid of the answer. It seemed more intimate than Bruce was ever prepared for. What he wanted – needed – was just a face underneath the helmet, a name in a record, a set of information that could be comprised in few sheets of document. _Liar._ Bruce ducked under the voice sniggering inside his head to lick at the scars, as if he could glean slices of their past that way. A sound between a moan and a sigh could be heard above him. Then hands snatched at Bruce’s throat - strong enough to bruise that Bruce gave a yelp - and pulled him up, putting their bodies flush against each other. Bruce swore at the feel of their hardness rubbing along their abdomens, liquid heat pooling between them, soaking them together. For a moment, Bruce didn’t know what to with his hands – Red Hood’s were now busy playing with Bruce’s nipples and teasing the tips of both of their cocks – so after flailing helplessly, he finally put his arms around the other’s back, squeezing down, perhaps wanting to pay back with his own bruises – naturally coming down below the waist, between tight mounds of flesh and where they rounded inwards –

Bruce hadn’t really thought to call that spot an ‘entrance’ before tonight.

His nails scratched at the rims experimentally and the gang leader’s breath hitched, hips lifting and then pushing down onto Bruce’s hand so hard that Bruce hastily pulled out for fear of doing any damage.

“Come on,” Red Hood rasped, “if you’re afraid of – cooties, use your damn fingers. Just – put _something_ of yours in me.”

Hell, those words _shouldn’t_ have made pure desire lance through his center. 

Although Red Hood One's blood test hadn’t garnered any DNA records, it had confirmed that he was, in fact, free of any transmittable diseases. Bruce shot back out a little teasingly, “Shouldn’t you be worried about me? After all, you don’t know where I’ve been.”

Laughter, perhaps weighed a little down by lust. “You're too much of a careful type.”

 _Careful my ass._ Bruce grunted as their hips nearly crushed together, bones singing. _This is madness._ Bruce drew back just enough to think of the next move.

“I have some lube in my –“

They simultaneously stopped when they realized they’d both spoken at exactly the same time. Then both of them broke out laughing at the sheer absurdity. Red Hood One was the first to recover - rather, he was the one who didn’t mind speaking while still snickering. “Let me guess, some super-grease for oiling those rusty locks or secret panels?”

“Something… like that.” Bruce added, feeling silly as he did so. “Silicon–based…?”

“Will do.” There was a sound of fingers snapping. “Fetch.”

“You still think I’m one of your hoods to order around?”

Despite the grumbling, Bruce reached out. He didn’t let go of one hand that was still clutching Red Hood One’s because he loathed to lose contact after the previous near-panic attack and dragged the heap of clothing with a finger. Bruce imagined he sensed a sort of amusement emanating out of the figure that he held onto.

“I’m not going to run off naked with a full mast sticking up between my legs.”

“I’m not afraid of you running off.”

“What _are_ you afraid of?”

Not deigning to answer, Bruce simply rummaged through the rumpled clothing with one hand. It was easy enough to identify his own by way of numerous secret pockets. He dug into one of them and pulled out a small bottle. After some thinking, he held the bottle between his teeth and pulled the whole heap over to them. He wasn’t sure what to tell the gang leader but the man seemed content to let Bruce lean him back against the wall and soon he had the clothes laid out in a sort of thin layer on the floor.

“So kind.” Red Hood One murmured as Bruce shifted both of them onto the makeshift blanket. Bruce couldn’t tell whether it was mocking. Considering the creature before him, probably so.

“As long as you’re doing that, would you mind scrunching up a bit of the floor here? There’s a good boy.”

Any complaint at this point would probably sound childish, and he was also curious regarding the strange request. So Bruce followed the gang leader’s guiding hands to gather that strange clay-like substance to roughly form a low mound under the laid-out clothing. The little process was highly incongruous. Two grown men playing in a sandbox. 

Bruce popped the bottle cap open and tried to apply the oil onto his fingers blind, nearly spilling the whole content in the first try, Red Hood trailing a foot along the inside of his thigh the whole time not helping. Bruce took small comfort in that the other man couldn’t see him blundering. He had fortunately finished slicking his whole hand when what felt like a toe poked at his throbbing member, making his breath wheeze out. Bruce glared into the general direction of laughter.

“Well, I’ve had something to drink and some meat to taste,” a loud smacking of lips – “and my clothes are nicely taken off…”

Hands ran slowly along Bruce’s legs, up to his waist, to latch onto his arms. Bruce felt the other man lean back languidly, taking Bruce along with him.

“I think this is the part where you ask me to come into bed with you, grandma.”

It’s really the other way around, thought Bruce as he felt Red Hood fully lie back with him on top. Then Red Hood dragged Bruce’s slicked hand lower down, sliding down his hip that rested on the previously built mound – oh, that was what it was for - the little hill raised the gang leader's hips a little higher so that Bruce could have an – easier… access…

Bruce slowly, tentatively, rubbed at the puckered ring of muscle at his fingertips, drawing out a shuddering sigh and making the other's hips lift higher. Bruce used his other hand to draw the other man’s thighs tight around his waist. He pushed in a finger, feeling muscles clench around it. _So tight, so hot._ Bruce froze. _It can’t possibly be_ -

Red Hood’s hand tapped the side of his bent head.

“Don’t flatter yourself thinking you couldn’t possibly fit in there." Red Hood ground down against Bruce’s fingers as he spoke.

“Go on, insert another,” whispered Red Hood, the low purr transferring through the finger inside, “stretch my walls as far as you can. Open me up _wide_ , panting and salivating and _wanting_.”

Breathing coming out shallow, Bruce slid in another finger. Hips bucked down, pushing back against the inserted fingers. Bruce gasped and reflexively curled in his digits, dragging along the inner walls, causing the other’s body to rock back harder. Bruce parted his two fingers, gently scissoring them and hitting a spot that made Red Hood nearly convulse and cry out. “ _Yes_ ,” the trembling voice and the tightening of muscles around him made Bruce clench his teeth. “ _More_.”

Red Hood One gasped as another finger once again poked at the hidden flesh. “I – _ah_ \- do know where – _yessss_ \- you’ve been.”

“What?” Bruce lifted his head, although he couldn’t see the man’s face, confused at the randomly spoken words. Then he’d remembered his little joke: _You don’t know where I’ve been._

“You’ve been in - darkness.” Bruce paused. Not noticing or not caring, Red Hood spoke again, “You still are, really.”

Bruce stayed still. Red Hood twisted his hips as if to compensate for the sudden lack of sensation. Then Bruce pressed hard along _that_ spot with all the fingers inside, making the whole body jolt.

“You don’t know _anything_ about me.”

A chuckle, that got cut off short as fingers tapped another vicious rhythm along the inner walls.

“Then how about – ah, haha, if not a name – _ahhh_ – an initial?” murmured Red Hood, once that fierce bucking had run its course and he’d gotten his breath back, although the moving digits did their best to whisk it away again, “You can – _hnnngh_ – carve it right, in, there, so I can try to, ah, decipher it – by, ha, _feeling_ it every, time, I, move.”

Bruce’s mouth was dry and he smacked his tongue, trying to gather up some saliva. He felt uncomfortable as it sounded too much like licking chops.

“You don’t – feel like an A or – F. No, something – rounder, not completely, not an O. Perhaps – ah, C? No, D, more – like, ahhhh… B? I like – B, somehow. Am I – right? Do I get a prize? Hook your finger in there for an O.K?”

Hips lifted once more as Bruce’s fingers did exactly that. Bruce growled as he nearly buried his face in the other’s hair, now barely resisting the urge to claw deeper inside. _I don’t want to leave anything in you. What I’d like to do is -_

 _I want to dissect you. To see what made you._ How _it made something like you._

An image flashed in Bruce’s mind – of this naked body lying flat on his workstation back at the headquarters. Hot flesh slowly heating the steel slab, legs spread wide, inviting him, daring him. In that picture, the head was a just a scribbled mass of red – except for the mouth with its smile that was all teeth. It’d still be laughing even as Bruce cut him open starting in the middle, going through his insides like a man doing divination through reading of entrails. _What did you find, little vigilante?_ The voice mocked inside Bruce’s head. _Just more red and flesh under your fingernails._ Hands grabbed Bruce’s wrists, drawing him forward. _Come here, come and play._ Hands slowly pushed his face into that open gap between splayed flesh, into the red darkness. _Here, it’s warm and slick in here. Doesn’t this feel like being a child again? A boy playing in mud._

Bruce woke up from that nightmarish reverie with a shake of his head. With a surprise, he found that his wrist really was held by the other’s hand, slowly dragging his fingers out of that warmth.

“That’s enough. You might want to lube yourself up.”

For a moment, Bruce was confused. Then, blood teeming up to his cheeks, Bruce scrabbled for the bottle again, hissing at the oily cold as it coated his throbbing organ.

Bruce let out a yell as he was suddenly kicked back.

He landed on his back and years of trained instinct took over. He lashed out to grab at the presence now looming above him, managing to latch onto both arms. Red Hood One didn’t fight back. Instead, he leaned more of his weight onto Bruce’s grip.

“Relax, grandma. Little Red Hood’s gonna ride you, per her original namesake.”

With a start, Bruce felt the other man slowly climbing atop him, straddling his waist. A part that felt like a stomach ground against Bruce’s dripping erection and he jerked up, swearing. Hands were released in favor of clutching at thighs that were now squeezing Bruce’s flanks on both sides. Through that point of contact, Bruce felt Red Hood lift himself up by his knees and then palming Bruce – slowly running up from the underside, almost raising up Bruce’s whole lower body just by that action – then taking a light hold to – ah, ah, Bruce felt his cock lined against the now-familiar place, that rim of muscles that his own fingers had stretched open.

Red Hood slowly went down on him, just swallowing the tip of Bruce’s cock, before raising himself up again, the edge of his entrance just tickling the throbbing flesh. The movement was repeated, the next going just a bit deeper than the other, the squeeze of muscles just a bit stronger, but not enough, Red Hood’s weight being supported mostly on his knees and on his hands that were flat on Bruce’s contracting abdomen. Bruce bucked and let out a litany of oaths and curses and near-sobs, as befitting a man being tortured.

“Damn it, damn – _you_ – to _hell_! Will you just-“

At that moment, Red Hood One _slammed_ down on Bruce, taking him whole to the hilt.

Bruce was thankful that he wasn’t alone in the animal cry he let out, Red Hood’s own was more stifled, but only marginally so.

With a shuddering sigh, Red hood leaned back, twisted his hips, rocking back and forth so that the flesh filling him rubbed against every deepest part inside. Then he lifted himself up a little, almost releasing Bruce, then came down again, hard.

Drawn into the inexorable pace, Bruce found himself surging up to meet him, hands climbing up the legs to grab onto the bucking hips, having difficulty holding onto the sweat-slicked skin. Sound of wet flesh slapping against wet flash reverberated through darkness in tandem with their violent movements, with the staccato breaths and cries that tumbled down from the impaled body above Bruce. Words drenched in pain-pleasure driving Bruce to insanity.

“So good. You feel - so good inside me – _ahh…._ My little vigilante. Yes, ah, _yes-_ “

“Here – wait – _haaaah,_ I – _nnnngh,_ fuck – slower, dammit –“

Bruce managed to get a firm enough grip on the bucking body riding him to assuage the fierce pace somewhat. I’m delirious, Bruce thought, otherwise, I couldn’t be saying the things I’m saying.

“Slower, I – I want to feel this – more, feel you – more.”

He was anguished. Bruce accepted it as he held that sinuous body, forcing it to a slower, even more maddening dance. It was, in a way, right that this felt so. Surely such intense physical pleasure, such savage exhilaration, shouldn’t be possible without its share of guilt.

Bruce hadn’t known he’d closed his eyes, only noticed it when he cracked them open – as if that made any difference – when he felt one of his hands being guided again. He let it, and although he couldn’t stop drawing in a shocked breath as his hand touched a hard, heated length, it felt natural to wrap his hand around it, starting with a caress that sent a delicious shiver through the other man’s body, then to stronger, rougher tugs.

“What about – _your_ name,” Bruce rasped out, “what would yours – _feel_ like,”

No answer came but short gasps of chuckle. Bruce pulled at the weight in his hand, stopping just before it was too much, eliciting another moan.

“No softness, something sharp – with edges – not round – _haaah_ – something –“ Something lean and lithe. “L,” Bruce wasn’t even sure he was actually managing to voice the letters out loud, or merely reciting them in his head. He was too far gone to care. “K,” Bruce ground out through gritted teeth, his hand made as if to release the flesh within and then gripped again fully, almost pulling himself upwards hanging on to it. 

“ _J._ ”

The body riding him arched sharply. Rib cage taut underneath the thinned-out skin for Bruce to describe, his hand feeling the keening sound rising from that long curving line before it was expelled. Heat exploded in Bruce’s hand, spilling all over his stomach.

Bruce felt the man sitting on him fold down joint by joint, hunched over and boneless, wet and heavy hair and breath tickling Bruce’s skin. Bruce had never even imagined this creature in such state, the thought causing unwanted echo ring through his nerves, his bones. Overriding it, Bruce surged up again, grunting with effort, forcing himself because if he faltered here, he wondered if he could gather enough strength to get up again. He took the nearly limp body along with him via momentum, pushing both of them back, so that the other man was once again on his back with Bruce lying on top, a wet meat covering. They had become separated in the process. Bruce grabbed both thighs, rough fingertips scraping along the array of old scars, and lifted them as he pushed forward – enough so that Bruce fancied Red Hood’s knees must be brushing his shoulders – and the creature, taking his cue, draped his calf over Bruce’s own shoulders, heels digging into his upper back. Bruce dragged his fingers down until he found that ring of panting muscles again. With a little help of his thumbs, the body underneath accepted him readily as Bruce pushed in. As he moved, Bruce was torn between being gentle and wanting to give the most merciless thrusts, him pounding into this body enough to wreck it. Red Hood One didn’t seem to mind either way, matching Bruce’s erratic movements.

Bruce buried his face in the pulsing throat before him. The scent of absinthe, that green poison, and the sweetness of unidentified chemicals distilled in their liquid heat, rose anew and Bruce was half-tempted to take a bite. His ran his hands through the curled locks, remembering the shape of that face. It isn’t right that _this_ would have a human face, Bruce thought through the haze, it should have the red hood grafted onto its head, as a permanent sign of its nature. The Red Hood that slashed its own stray paths in the woods, that devoured the meat and drink in the pantry and licked its fingers clean fully knowing that it was the grandmother’s flesh and blood it had relished. It’d fuck over the wolf senseless and climb into its maw willingly, settling inside its bowels. And when the huntsman comes to open up the belly of the wolf, he’d find something much more terrible. A head wreathed in intestines, bloody arms coming up from the open ribs to encircle the hunter, pulling him into the red pit. _Come and play._

“Yes, yes,” murmured the other man along Bruce’s clavicle, “you know me. What need we have - for faces or names? When we – _ahhh_ \- know each other so well, so _deeply._ ”

Red Hood's legs had slipped down at some point. As Bruce shifted position, those legs encircled his waist. Arms came up and round to clutch him, as if soldering him to the body writhing underneath, nails clawing at his back, hard enough to draw blood.

_Just boys playing in a puddle of blood. And there’ll always be a playmate for you here._

_To have and to hold._

When he came, it was violence.

Bruce felt the whole of his insides being kicked out of him, emptying into the body beneath with a roar, and he was afraid it’d have _seared_ the other’s flesh. He might have lost consciousness if not for the sharp pain blooming on his left shoulder, the other man’s muffled cries flowing through his muscles.

They lay like that for a while, spent, gulping in air like two shipwrecked sailors washed ashore, having barely escaped drowning beneath the waves. Bruce flinched as Red Hood One eventually drew his mouth off his shoulder, licking at the bite marks that felt deep.

“I’ll need a rabies shot, won’t I?”

“Har, har.”

The mocking reply to Bruce’s jibe was delivered a little thinly, a watered-down version of its usual sting. Bruce moved his hips, shuddering at the wet sound as he freed himself. He shifted his weight back onto his numb legs, drawing himself up, Except Red Hood One hadn’t let go and they both ended up more or less sitting up, leaning against the soft walls, cradling against each other with limbs still entangled. Feeling a tingling sensation just short of pleasure or pain between where their bodies touched, Bruce growled into the other’s neck. _Why. How_. It was a nonsense question, randomly thrown by his addled brain, encompassing nothing and everything about the creature he held now, about them. Yet Red Hood answered it anyway.

“You see, you’re walking along a plank…” two fingers tapped up Bruce’s spine, playing out the words, “…and you go right over the edge, but you don’t fall. You just flip right over that surface, to stand upside down on the other side. Except, you’re no longer sure if you’re the one upside down or whether you’re the only one standing right up, are you? And after a while, you realize, does it matter?”

“You don’t make sense.”

“Does it matter?”

The mischief in the voice was back. As the body Bruce held ground against him along with its usual brand of cruel laughter, Bruce felt a trickle of something lukewarm along both their thighs. Upon understanding what it was, Bruce was amazed that he could still blush, despite what had just transpired. He managed to disentangle himself from the flesh-vine of their limbs and reached for his pants again. It was true that DNA wasn’t an issue but… just to make sure… and he had wanted to try it out and now seemed as a good time as ever.

And, perhaps, just a little mischief of his own.

He coaxed a gelatin capsule out of numerous pockets and held it between his fingers. Bruce was half afraid of Red Hood’s reaction when he reached down, seeking that spot that had its fill of him just before. Bruce just felt a flicker of amusement and a barely audible sigh of languid lust as the fingers slipped in easily through the wet and slick entrance.

“Really, little vigilante, give a man a breather at least – _haaah!_ ”

Red Hood One snapped up his whole body as Bruce popped the capsule against the inner walls. The reaction was understandable, the evaporating chemical was cold even at Bruce’s fingertips, like dry ice.

“It’s – it’s for cleaning up bodily residue and contaminating DNA, basically erasing any trace evidences.”

Upon encountering uncharacteristic silence from the other man, Bruce was compelled to add: “It spreads best from inside the body.”

“Someone _has_ told you that you’re an _unsexiest_ pillow talker?”

“According to your prior assessment, my experience of pillow-talk is apparently next to zero.”

Bruce flexed his finger on a whim, causing a moan as hips twitched along his arm. And he wondered if he had doomed himself to be forever reminded of the feeling of this body as it felt right now - whenever he saw the same body attired in that clean suit, every shifting of hips, the gloved fingers lifting the gun, the grinning mouth – all conjuring up the memories of the same hips grinding against him, the same hand and mouth in places that alighted Bruce like a carefully kindled flame.

Unexpected touch of fingers on his lips – then, another kind of warmth, more delicate - shook Bruce awake from his thoughts. Before Bruce could push him away, Red Hood drew back. “What?” Bruce barked, annoyed.

“You had a stupid look on your face.”

“You can’t see my face.”

“I could _feel_ you having a stupid look on your face.”

Before Bruce could protest, the mouth – yes, it was a mouth – was back on Bruce’s own, teeth worrying at the lower lips, tongue flicking at the line in between. _Last line to be crossed, was it? Such an earnest, weak conviction of a child._ Bruce, shivering, opened his mouth to let him in. A salty tang pricked his tongue at first, possibly a residue of his own taste – then his breath was taken away as the other’s tongue ran along his teeth, wrapping along his own. Bruce found himself groaning desperately. Who was he trying to fool? This wasn’t a child’s fling in the mud. No amount of water or stern admonishment would wash away the stain. He was in this sandbox, this pit, this bowel of the beast. And despite what others had tried to convince him – Alfred, Uncle Philip, and even himself - he was never getting out. A wiser, and perhaps more wicked part of him had calculated this outcome, this had been a way to commit himself. Only fitting that the deal was sealed by crossing all the lines.

_To have and to hold._

_Take a vow._

So when they at last came apart to save themselves from suffocating in each other, Bruce chased the other’s lips again, capturing it so violently that teeth clashed. His mouth some ravenous, starved thing as it devoured the other, as if they were created solely for this purpose, to be consumed this way by each other.

When the kiss finally broke, they were both breathing hard again.

“You might convince me to think that we’ve only just begun,” Red Hood said in a harsh whisper, licking Bruce’s lips, “but – we’ve lost track of time, so let’s not lose our heads too. If we were to have a second round, I don’t think we’d settle for anything shorter, and Ms. Amir’s volunteers come in early.”

The name now sounded as foreign as some alien species on another planet. Then Bruce remembered exactly where they were placed. The next few minutes were extremely odd – although Bruce felt that he was the only one subject to that particular sense of embarrassment – Bruce popping another capsule over the mess of their clothing, on the mussed ground, dressing themselves – sticky and unpleasant – Bruce feeling the prickly sensation along his back now that the daze was somewhat lifting out of him, and keeping his back to the wall  just in case. Although once they were dressed, Red Hood with his helmet on and Bruce covering his head with his own red hood – the former simply took hold of Bruce’s hand, sauntering through the darkness. Bruce felt strangely buoyant as a balloon floating behind a child holding it by a string.

Bruce really wasn’t aware when the darkness began to be muddied. He blinked when grey invaded the thick black of his vision, a patch of that shady light expanding slowly, and they found themselves walking along a hallway. Still unlit, but city lights outside and the moon thinly being filtered out by slits of windows up on the high walls. Eventual as it was, the return of his vision felt so surreal that Bruce had to continuously blink behind his hood multiple times. The air felt colder here. Suddenly, Bruce was acutely aware that they both smelled like sex. He was expecting to be almost revolted by it yet it sent a new pang of arousal through his body. He drew in a surprised breath when the man leading him let go and turned to him. The usually impeccable suit was rumpled and torn – stained in some places, only the steely chrome of the helmet flawless and gleaming red. He must’ve imagined the color because discerning it was impossible under this almost nonexistent lighting.

Bruce tried to quench the surge of desire that lurched inside him. Now what? Will they part ways outside, as if they truly were passing strangers, or should he at least make a pretense of a fight – trying to take him in regardless of the futility, just to make sure they were back on familiar grounds?

Red Hood one stepped towards him, hands both raised. Bruce frantically grabbed the fingers as they moved up to his hood.

“Last one for the night.”

The quick fingers had already raised Bruce’s hood so that it revealed just his mouth. One hand took hold of the edge of the helmet, lifting it a little, as the other hand came over where Bruce’s eyes would be over the hood. Bruce felt the knife-edge of the helmet brush over his nose, rising just enough for their lips to meet. Bruce’s eyes had drifted closed even before that, mouth opening eagerly, tasting each other.

_Red Hood’s tongue slipped in something that went straight down Bruce’s throat._

Bruce stumbled back, gasping, tripping over his own legs to crash against the wall.

“Wha –“

“Don’t worry, I’ve just slipped you a mickey, is all.”

_Knockout drops._

Bruce tried to get up with a snarl and felt his legs give way like they were on slippery ice. He swung a hand to grab a hold of Red Hood’s ankles but of course he just neatly stepped out of the way, chuckling.

“I figured you’d be the type to get all awkward about goodbyes, so consider it as a favor.”

“You bastarrrr – “

Bruce’s tongue had already gone numb, words slurring. His vision blurred.

“Oh, you’ll just have a nice little sleep for half an hour, plenty of time to get away before anyone strolls in. I did say it’d be like a midsummer night’s dream, haven’t I? I keep my word.”

Bruce floundered along the ground, slumped by the wall. Bruce growled as Red Hood One crouched down by him, tapping his chin playfully.

“No need to turn in a letter of resignation. I guess we’ll meet again soon enough in a different kind of dance.”

The red helmet tilted a little. “Hmm, I suppose there isn’t that much of a difference when it comes to us.”

He stood up, flicking Bruce’s chin with the end of his fingers as he did.

“Sweet dreams, my little vigilante.”

The last thing Bruce saw in that hallway was a splotch of red among grey and black.

Like an image in a dream.

 

* * *

 

However, some dreams leave remnants in the waking world. In this case, Alfred was to be the unwitting bearer of it. Although he himself considered it as a mystery. Two mysteries, in fact. They stood out because there wasn’t anything he didn’t know about his young (young he’d remain forever in his eyes) master.

One was concerning the period of almost two weeks Bruce had gone undercover inside the Red Hood Gang. He had abandoned that project rather suddenly and when asked, Bruce had simply said that his cover had been blown. Usually such failure would make his young master more driven, fueled by rage. Yet he spent the next few days in what could only be described as being uncharacteristically _careful,_ not necessarily in his vigilantism, but in his general manner as if reality were something wrought out of thin glass and it’d break in one wrong move.

The other mystery was almost concurrent with the first one in the timing of its manifestation. Bruce had, anonymously, made a donation to support the rising installation artist by name of Ms. Amir. The support continued years afterwards. Yet Bruce never actually went to see any of Ms. Amir’s praised works and despite Alfred’s urging, refused to see her face to face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me sobbing over keyboard while writing: written sex scene, Y U so hard. 
> 
> Now that I’ve gotten this out of my system, I can now focus on my other, completely family-friendly, squeaky-clean work, whew!


End file.
